


thirty one days

by brunchclub



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apocalypse, Asphyxiation, Blood and Injury, Butcher Army, Choking, Drowning, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Hurt Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Major Character Injury, One Shot Collection, Physical hurt/comfort, Sickfic, Waterboarding, Zombie Apocalypse, multiple AUs, thats right 31 days of dadza angst, whumptober but not daily and not in October and also only dadza, youre gonna wanna punt me so bad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28470783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brunchclub/pseuds/brunchclub
Summary: They were strong, and he was a coward, because they could leave, and he could do nothing but sit, abandoned, unable to even give them the small mercy of ending it himself.They were strong, but he loved them, and they loved him too. Or so he thought. He swallowed involuntarily. Wouldn’t they have said goodbye?—thirty one days of dadza angst based on the prompts from the 2020 whumptober, but out of order and a bunch of au’s
Relationships: Ranboo & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & Phil Watson, Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson
Comments: 27
Kudos: 185





	1. saying goodbye is admitting defeat

**Author's Note:**

> “aren’t you tired of philza angst? give the man a fucking break!” you scream into the void  
> i cannot hear you i am eating a bagel and being fed off of your tears
> 
> seriously though thank you so much for the support I’ve received on previous works!! I LOVE comments and I’m so glad to have received so many!!
> 
> i want more though share your suffering  
> i’ll link my prompt list at the very end if you’re interested!! they’re going to be out of order but you can at least see what i’m working towards  
> prompt for today: “DON’T SAY GOODBYE | ISOLATION | ABANDONED”
> 
> w/o further ado, enjoy

The shudders were starting. He’d seen the way the less-shivers, more full-body-seizes had wracked the Turning before, but he hadn’t realized how painful it was. He threw his head back against the wall to try and steady himself, mouth flying open in a desperate attempt to catch a breath from a pair of cramping, useless lungs. 

It was close.

He’d hoped he’d have a chance to say goodbye, before this happened. Despite their departure, Phil had held onto a feeble, selfish hope that they’d come back, if only so he wouldn’t have to leave with only the blurry, feverish afterimage he’d gotten, their backs turned to him, silhouetted by the sunrise peeking through the cracked door. He had wished, horribly, like a  _ coward, _ that he wouldn’t have to be the one to open the door to his own death. But the shudders were starting, and he only had so much time left. 

He couldn’t fault them, though; could  _ never _ fault them. Whatever made them survive, helped them along the journey the easiest, he would do. 

It was what had gotten him into his little situation after all.

The barrel of his gun winked playfully at him, lying in one of the few sunbeams that had managed to glow down through the torn roof, dappling the floor with light. 

The patch of light it had skidded into when he’d first fumbled with and dropped it looked warm. He’d been huddled against the shadows, draped against the wall. Being warm again was an attractive idea, even if it was just for a few moments. 

He made to stand, to hobble over, because he wasn’t sure he could do much else. When he tried, though, his legs didn’t respond. He looked at them, squinting critically. He tried again.

“Oh.” He realized aloud, coughing the end of it when it was interrupted by another jerk of his body. He couldn’t move. He’d forgotten that part, somewhere between the last time he’d seen a Turning and his own. The site of the bite was always the first to turn numb and useless. He had almost forgotten there was a source of the infection; it was bandaged, injury hidden underneath his pant leg. Phil was pretty sure he was supposed to re-wrap it, he remembered; change the cloth.

A roll of bandages sat next to him. 

He’d given up on that when he’d failed to be able to move yesterday.

He couldn’t move yesterday, either. His memory felt fuzzy, days marked only by the amount of sunlight visible through the holes above him. His head was pounding. 

But if he couldn’t move, and he couldn’t move yesterday, and the gun was across the room, he couldn’t get the gun. 

His eyes flew open. He hadn’t realized that they’d rested, lashes sticking together briefly with some amount of dirtied saline solution of tears and soot. 

He needed the gun. That was the whole point of it. It was why it was across the room. He’d tried to lift it, cock it, before. The sudden motions had made him jerk, limbs uncooperative with the specificity of what he’d tried to make them do. They’d disobeyed, some mix of inner turmoil and loss of bodily control letting the weapon scatter and skid across the floor. 

He needed the gun to stop what was happening to him. 

To stop what could happen to his sons.

They were strong, and he was a coward, because they could leave, and he could do nothing but sit, abandoned, unable to even give them the small mercy of ending it himself. 

They were strong, but he loved them, and they loved him too. Or so he thought. He swallowed involuntarily. Wouldn’t they have said goodbye?

There was no room for doubt, he convinced themself. Even if they hadn’t loved him like he’d loved his faux-children, there had been some mutual respect. That was worth something. That was why he needed to spare them the turmoil of having to put him down, zombie or otherwise. He’d been determined to stop himself before they’d had to, stop himself from becoming part of the shuffling, groaning masses that he’d heard outside the building dusk til dawn. 

But the little traitorous part of him had stopped him from grabbing the gun when he’d still had the strength.

_ They’ll come back. Don’t you want to see them? Say goodbye? Say thank you, for being your family? Say sorry, because you couldn’t protect them well enough? Say that you loved them, love them, so much, like you do? _ He’d lied to himself, then, for his own sake. He thought it might have been days, that they’d been gone. They’d left with mumbles he couldn’t comprehend, then. It had been so foggy. They’d left, turned towards the sun, leaving Phil in the dark ruins of a building he couldn’t even recognize. They’d left, but they’d left with him the few items that he curled up with, hunched against the wall. 

He thought Tommy would have taken his bandana, Tubbo his little bee charm, Wilbur his beanie, Techno his cape; maybe that had been why it was so easy to convince himself they’d be back. He couldn’t move his hand if he wanted to; but he didn’t, not when the beanie and bandana were clutched so tightly, charm wrapped up in them and his palm. The cape was over him. He lamented the blood he was sure seeped through where his pant leg was plastered to his leg and onto the fabric. 

Not really a lot of dry cleaners open.

He giggled to himself at that, before another shudder hit.

His grin fell.

He missed them, he did. 

He couldn’t do  _ one _ thing for them; he couldn’t give them normalcy, he couldn’t protect them properly, and he couldn’t stop himself. Stop himself so they might not have to in the future, when he joined the crowds of Turned. A mindless freak, wandering the streets, calling out to no one and nothing, moaning to an empty, lifeless husk of a world.

Tears were dripping down his face again, and he couldn’t move his hand to wipe them, even if he wanted to.

—

The cool cement felt like heaven on Phil’s side. If he let his mind wander, it felt almost like water, slightly wet, waves licking against his cheek, frisky.

God, he missed the beach.

A shuffle brought him out of his daydreaming.

“Lil’ too late for tha’, ya’ bloo’y arse.” He grumbled, cursing out the lumbering figure that had begun to shamble towards him. The zombie cocked its head in his peripherals; although his field of vision had been steadily shrinking, blurring, the twat was stood so close he could see him. The image shook as his teeth chattered. He closed his eyes, satisfied as the tosser groaned and slumped against the wall.

He’d occupied that wall, some undefinable period of time ago. A particularly violent jerk had seen to it that he’d left it. He was strewn unbearably close to where the sun would have fallen if it were day; but just out of its reach. He’d hoped that perhaps when it had been noon, when it had hung heavy overhead, that it would have somehow spread to warm him.

As it was, he’d had to settle with the coolness of the floor. The gun, likewise, was out of reach. It was of no comfort to him that even if he could have reached it, he couldn’t have used it.

The beanie had maddeningly fallen from his grasp. It lied against his stomach, though; he’d weaponized one of the seizes to push it closer to him. It was marginally better than where it had been before, too far. The cloak still fell over him, though, and for that he was grateful. Even if the chill of the floor was occasionally gratifying, he preferred the warmth. The bandana hadn’t slipped his hand, thankfully, the charm still tucked within its folds.

He’d taken to humming, short little musical phrases that could fit between the jolts. Some of them were Wilbur’s, the memorable ones; the ones that had substance. Ones that reminded him of talks of Dream’s; he’d wanted to be a musician. He’d had a silver tongue and a keen ear; Phil had told him so and he’d practically preened under the praise. Others were simpler, little ditties that Tommy and Tubbo had come up with. Silly little songs that had made nights a little less cold. He remembered when he’d found them, huddled together, the blonde threatening him. He’d chuckled and held out a hand, offering something he hadn’t known would turn into something so close to him. He whistled, too, ones that reminded him of the ones Techno had done when he’d been relaxed, going about his tasks when they were far from a crowd, or when they were taking out a bare few stragglers. He’d quipped that Phil was the angel of death; swept in to save them, and killed the rest. He’d laughed and called Techno the blood god, in turn. Protecting them from the Turned, but zealous in doing so. 

Mostly, though, when he didn’t have the strength to muster, to mumble melodies, he stayed in silence.

Silence, where he thought.

The image of four backs turned from him came up the most; hurt the most, too. It was bittersweet. He wished so terribly he could have known what they’d said. But they’d been brusque, from his memory, swift and efficient, and his ears had been deafened and ringing. He couldn’t blame them, of course; he was sick, and he wasn’t getting better. The only  _ murmur  _ of a cure was so far from them; barely substantiated, peddled by Tubbo and Tubbo alone.

He wished they’d stayed to say goodbye. He wished  _ he’d _ had the strength to, but as it had been, his tongue was clumsy and thick in his mouth, unable to articulate anything coherent. It was close to there, again; his muttered phrase to the Turned earlier was slurred awfully.

He wished they’d said goodbye, yes, but he wished they’d leave more desperately.

They stayed with him, fronts towards the sun, lined up left to right; Tubbo, Tommy, Wilbur, Techno. His sons, pseudo or not. With the blood they’d spilled and shed together, the sweat and tears, he could barely consider them anything but. The long nights, the chaotic days, the still in-betweens. They mattered so much to him; and that was why he wanted them to leave. He couldn’t stand to have them close, not when he knew he’d eventually lose what functions left he could control, would leap at them with renewed strength, not his own, would try and tear them apart—

The thought left him gasping for breath more than the aggressive contractions of his lungs.

But they wouldn’t leave. They just stood there, through the day, through the night, waiting for something. Phil had screamed for them at some point, for them to leave, to stay, to do something— the evidence of that was raw in his throat.

They hadn’t moved.

They weren’t breathing, and that scared him most of all. Even when his eyes were shut, he could see them. Even when the sun was gone, the light shone past them.

He sobbed uselessly.

He couldn’t do  _ one thing _ for them, get them to leave; and it was all his fault.

It had been him who had insisted on being the last down when they’d descended the elevator shaft, to get to the ground floor. It had been him who needed to hold off the Turned, him who’d turned to leap onto the cable, his leg that had been snatched. It was him that had been hung by his ankle from the doorway, his leg that had been bitten.

They’d caught him, not that it mattered.

The mark of canines in the meat of his thigh had been a death sentence from the very beginning. 

It had been fuzzy, after that; some combination of the wounds he’d suffered through and hidden earlier in the exploration of the building, and the throbbing, pulsing feeling sending tremors through his leg. He just knew he’d been taken, carried through the city. Some one-story building. Basically a room. Left there. Isolated.

He hadn’t regretted it. Would never regret it, never for so long as he lived, for so long as he was Turned, for so long as he was silent in the grave he would never be buried in. His open-air tomb.

But they hadn’t said goodbye.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the light that was beginning to spread across the floor. He thought his knuckles would have been white around the precious items he clutched, if only he could move them. 

He heard their voices, somewhere. They were distant, and muffled, but they were each distinct in intonation and cadence; his boys. All unique, all precious; but all his sons. 

The voices were ebbing and flowing, torturing him with their fuzziness. Still, they were growing louder. Noise was so unbearably loud when all you’d had for so long was yourself and silence.

He sang under his breath to drown it out. When that wasn’t enough he hummed, louder. Desperately, he made a weak little whistle, hoping the pitch would drown the sound. 

The dawn wasn’t that bright. Not yet. He opened his eyes, staring at the floor. His gaze rose. They stood there, again, but mirrored. Techno was on his left, now, and the edges of Tubbo on the furthest right he could see. Wilbur and Tommy were the clearest, most directly in front of him.. He could see their faces, though, which was the strangest part. They all looked varying levels of on the edge of breaking, though the fine details were blurred. 

_ “S’rry.”  _ He mumbled. He was going to close his eyes again, see them in the blackness of his vision instead, when movement caught his attention.

They fluttered open weakly. 

Tommy was swinging his bat down on something growling in the corner. The snarl stopped.

Techno was crouched in front of him. He felt fingers on his neck; he couldn’t move against them, so he let them be. He knew, vaguely, that someone was behind him, removing the cape. He would have thought it was Techno, taking it back; except the rosette was in his vision. He realized it was Wilbur, doing it for him, when his fuzzy image stopped at his legs. Fabric peeled off of his skin as the brunette worked at cutting it at the thigh, gentle with the glinting shape of a knife in his hand.

They were saying things, quick, frantic, that he couldn’t understand. 

_ Too late. _ Were words he thought he heard, defeated. In a voice he never thought he’d hear them from. It was usually boisterous; excitable, almost too much so. It was grating to hear what should have been optimism, dampened. The words didn’t make sense in any context, though. Imaginary.

_ No.  _ Muttered from two. It was the right phrase for the two eldest brothers to use against their younger. But again, context was lacking, tone was  _ too _ dry. Stubborn, determined, flat.

_ I’m so sorry.  _ Not from himself, this time, though he wished he could have vocalized it fully. Saddened, shaking, crying; Tubbo should never have to be like that. Not ever like he was when he and the two youngest had first met.

He sighed, and it rattled in his chest.

_ “G’bye.”  _ He let his eyes close, finally.

The protests were swept under by the rush of water washing the world around him away.

—

Wilbur followed Techno as he led them, dutifully right behind the eldest. He clutched his case tightly to him, with two arms. He could not afford to let the precious material inside go to waste. Even though had a strap, even if it slung across him, he could trust nothing but himself to deliver the cargo. He could never forgive himself if something happened to it. Not when they were so close.

The journey had been too long for his liking, when they were so short on time. They’d been aided significantly by Tubbo and Tommy checking every vehicle on their path. They’d found a beaten up truck, key in, gas low but miraculously present, and had immediately taken it. It had shortened their trip, shorn it nearly in half. It had eventually stuttered to a stop like every other damned machine left in the world, run out of gas, but he would sing its praises until the rest of his miserable, insignificant little life if it ended up saving Phil’s life.

Phil, who was dying,  _ Turning,  _ isolated and  _ alone. _ His stomach churned thinking about it, the low groan and mumble that had left him as Wilbur set him down against the wall, propping him up in a way that was hopefully conducive to both comfort and rest, without leaving him prone and on the cold floor. And it had been cold, in the dusk, and he’d hated leaving him there. But they couldn’t take him on foot, and they’d had no idea they’d find that little dusty-blue truck, or that they’d find the cure at all.

But it sat nestled in his guitar case nonetheless, tucked alongside his most precious possession. It was fragile, George had warned. It wouldn’t work on everyone, Sapnap had added.

And it couldn’t be too late, Dream had finalized. 

They’d left the “dream team”, a ragtag group of scientists and engineers, in a rush. They didn’t bother to stay the night, or rest. The Turning was a slow, excruciating thing, they’d learned. But it moved at different speeds on everyone. And once their chest stilled, they stopped breathing, the virus really took hold, there was no curing it. There was no help for the Turned besides a bullet in the brain.

Wilbur wasn’t sure he could do that to Phil. 

He knew Techno  _ could.  _ Could put a bullet through any of their skulls, theoretically. Could put on the ice-cold, thin-lipped glare and pop a cap. 

But doing it to any of them would destroy him.

Techno couldn’t pull the trigger and live.

Wilbur couldn’t pull the trigger, period.

And Tommy and Tubbo certainly couldn’t either.

Which was why he was praying to whatever god was listening that the cure was compatible with his father, would work, that it wasn’t too late.

What bothered him most was the way they left. It rubbed him raw, a rope wound around his neck and wrists that left the insides of him red and chafing. 

He couldn’t say goodbye.

So he didn’t.

He’d felt the cold of the floor and had slipped off his beanie without a thought. He’d opened Phil’s hand, letting it close instinctively around the material. 

Techno draped his cape over Phil without a word. It was raggedy, reduced to more a thick piece of long fabric, but it left him more vulnerable, exposed to the world.

Tubbo gave up his bee charm from his bag. Wilbur knew he looked at it when he had nightmares. When Tommy left to do tasks away from him. Tommy took it back and wrapped it in his bandana, baring his neck and it’s ugly scars to the world. The world had ripped at Tommy and Tommy had ripped right back.

Phil looked less sickly with the items. They left food, water; a roll of bandages, too. 

And then they left without a goodbye.

It wasn’t meant to be the last time they saw him, he reasoned. He didn’t need to say goodbye.

But if it was.

Wilbur didn’t think he could ever feel okay again.

His hands clenched tighter around the case. 

It wouldn’t be, he assured himself.

Couldn’t be.

—

The city was big. Too big. But Techno navigated it swiftly; it felt as if he’d been there his whole life, despite setting foot in it only once more. The plaza was close by, he knew. From there, it would be easy. It had to be. 

The building they’d left Phil in was in view. He looked over his shoulder for only a moment to cast a subtle look back to his brothers. Wilbur was biting his lip, making it pale under the pressure. His knuckles were white around the guitar case they’d stuffed the antibodies in. He was looking down. Phil would have chided him, told him to be careful, not to draw blood, but in that friendly, laughing way, the kind that had Wilbur agreeing congenially, that felt less like a scold and more like care.

Phil wasn’t there.

Phil was slumped against a wall in an abandoned building, alone, and defenseless. 

His frustration was mounting, had been, in step with his fear, ever since he’d gotten bit. The elevator shaft had been a risky move. There was no other option, though, and as terrible and sick as Techno felt thinking about it, it was amazing that they left that death trap of a supply run with only one casualty.

One  _ possible _ casualty, he reminded himself with a swallow. His anger subsided, replaced with a worry that thickly coated the inside of his throat and chest. It bubbled and oozed, and he almost wished for the anger back.

Anything better than the anticipatory dread building in him. 

The dread and guilt.

The cure had been relatively easy to secure. They’d been heading that way anyway, towards where Tubbo heard of the cure. It was barely a hint. He said he’d heard it on their dying radio, a little fucked up box that chattered useless static. Tubbo liked the noise, though, on quiet nights. He listened to it the most intently. Techno hadn’t heard it, but he hadn’t been listening, either.

They had nowhere else to go, though. They’d been passing through the city on their route. The supply run had been doomed from the beginning. Multi-story buildings were always a bad idea, but every ground level shop and storage facility had been looted ruthlessly. The apartment complex had been their only bet. 

It should have been who stayed up. He was their best fighter. But Phil wasn’t close behind. 

He regretted not insisting on staying up instead.

He regretted a lot of things.

He mostly regretted not saying goodbye when he had the chance. 

He’d been silent as they’d taken Phil to somewhere to rest. He’d been silent when he’d given him his cloak. He’d been silent when they’d left. 

The trip hadn’t seen him speak much, either. He didn’t feel like speaking when his oldest friend, who had quickly become like a father to him was on the brink of becoming one of the things he’d dedicated the greater part of his life killing; Turned.

He knew that he’d have to be the one to end his father’s second, empty life, when the time came. He couldn’t let anyone else do it.

It was what Phil deserved. A death from someone who loved him. Who he loved, clearly. And he knew Wilbur, the younger boys, too, were qualified for the task.

But he couldn’t let them. Not when he knew it would tear him apart himself, not when it would break the others so completely.

Some small part of him hadn’t given up yet. It was relying on the cure. 

The rest of him felt carefully numb. A cracking facade that only weakened the closer he got to the doors of the structure.

When he pushed inside, saw the Turned moaning against the wall, his heart stopped.

_ I should have said goodbye. _ The voice inside of him whispered.

His gaze fell on his father.

A futile spark of hope lit. It was small, and there was nothing to feed it. Against all odds, it persisted anyway.

—

They approached the doors. They creaked open with a high pitched noise, almost like a whistle, but low, more of a whisper of sound. Tommy pushed in third, uncaring of the possible danger. Phil was the first priority. Techno was already crouching down, checking the blonde’s pulse. Like they’d discussed.

He stared at the very much active Turned in the corner. He scowled. 

He brought his bat down on the bastard with vindictive force. A few times. The grumbling stopped. A few more times. The violence wasn’t healthy; Phil told him that. He admitted that he was prone to it, too; but frustration wasn’t better taken out on the Turned. They poor twits had been human once, too. He had joked it was a waste of bullets and energy either way. 

Phil wasn’t awake to gently remind him, or to giggle and make light of it. To keep him grounded. 

He felt nauseous when he looked down. All he could see was long blonde hair where there was cropped brown. He looked away, shuffling back towards Tubbo. He dropped the bat.

_ “S’rry.” _ He heard, muttered and low. He glanced between them all. 

“Who said that.” He demanded. His pulse was thudding in his ears.

“Phil.” Wilbur responded, almost a rasp. His voice was as quiet as the apology had been. He was busy cutting around the wound, checking the bandages; what was Tommy doing?  _ Nothing. _

Techno looked grim. Wilbur looked tired. Tubbo, beside him, was shaking like a leaf. He felt the trembles, too, as he whispered.

“It’s too late. Isn’t it.”

_ “No.” _ Techno and Wilbur both snapped, immediately. It didn’t sound sure, though; it sounded almost as desperate as he felt. Wilbur was prying open his guitar case, though, rummaging through it. 

An irrational pang of fear cloyed at his skin, beads of sweat forming in his panic, even against the coolness of the room. They couldn’t have lost it. They hadn’t opened the case since they’d gone to the damn complex, empty except for a few people. The dream team. A couple others.

He wondered why they’d refused the help offered. The extra people.

But the idea of anyone else seeing Phil like this, intruding on what could be his death, what could be their goodbyes… 

… it made his eyes burn.

Their goodbyes. He hadn’t said it before. He wasn’t sure Phil could hear any of them, now. He wished he’d said it before. But a goodbye was an admission of defeat. See you later, alligator, maybe he could have done. But he hadn’t. Because he was unsure, and Tommy hated being unsure. He hated not knowing. He hated not having full, one hundred percent confidence in an outcome. 

They worked in silence. Wilbur was cleaning off a syringe, sterilizing it. Good. Tommy wasn’t sure if he could handle Phil with another infection, let alone Phil himself.

“I’m so sorry.” Tubbo whimpered. He clung to Tommy. Tommy clung back. He felt like a boat rocked against the shore too many times, about to capsize. He was in the shallows; he wasn’t in danger. But he felt the fear and panic all the same.

“Don’t say that.” He tried to say. It didn’t come out.

—

“I’m so sorry.” He whispered. It came out trembling and awkward, and Tubbo wasn’t sure who he was saying it to in the first place.

To Tommy, maybe, Tommy who he was gripping so hard he could practically feel the flesh bruising, who was gripping him just as hard back. 

To Wilbur, perhaps, responsibility thrust on him and Techno like always. Wilbur who was having to stare the evidence of their father’s decline in its ugly mouth; and it did look like one, open and teeth-shaped and grotesque.

To Techno, even, who was speaking so quietly Tubbo couldn’t hear him even in the silence, especially not over his own choked sobs. Techno, who had one hand on their father’s pulse and the other in his hair, checking his status and trying his best to comfort him the way Phil had comforted all of them before. 

To himself. He was grieving a loss that had not already come to pass. He was apologizing because he’s lost his father a second time, because he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to get close to another person again, not without worrying if they’ll leave him behind too. He’s not sure he’s going to be able to look away from Tommy and Wilbur and Techno ever again, because he’s too scared they’ll disappear, get dragged into a mass of the Turned and fall before anyone can catch them.

To Phil.

To Phil, who said  _ sorry _ first, and Tubbo doesn’t know what he’s saying sorry about, because if anything, Tubbo is the guilty one.

Tubbo didn’t say goodbye. He had the chance. He was the last to leave, staring at where his father’s hand clutched around the bundle of fabric and charm, so strong in comparison to the rest of him, which looked so weak, pale and dirty. 

Tubbo didn’t say goodbye. He should have. He should have learned that lesson after his first father’s death, because how could he not say goodbye after leaving without an ‘I love you’ only to discover the man shambling across the street, pursuing a screaming woman.

He doesn’t say goodbye. He didn’t. 

So it crushes him all the more when Phil does.

—

_ “Don’t—“  _ Wilbur cries, and he plunges the syringe into his thigh, watching it empty desperately. He’s praying for the first time since he was a child, but this time he’s calling it out because it’s serious, and if you give me anything  _ give this to me. _

_ “No—“ _ the sound tears it’s way from Techno’s mouth like a wounded animal, a fierce sort of protective snarl that dares Phil to say it, to imply leaving them again.

_ “Phil—“ _ Tommy whispers, and it’s so distant that he can hear echoing off of himself. It barely leaves his lips but it fills against his rib cage instead and it doesn’t stray.

“Don’t say goodbye.” Tubbo says it the clearest of them all, voice somehow devoid of the thickness that dampened the sobs moments before. “Don’t you  _ dare.” _

Phil can’t say anything else. He sees his kids. They’re around him, with him. 

That’s all the goodbye he needs.

—

Phil wakes up somewhere completely unfamiliar. His legs shook with even the notion of stretching them, one side of his thigh burning uncomfortably. He felt clean, which is the next thing he registered. He was in bed, too. He could push up with his arms, although they trembled and stung, still waking up from whatever slumber they’d been cast into.

His head felt so clear.

There’s a tray by his side. Surgical tools; forceps, gauze.

A scalpel.

He took it, and ran his ring finger along the edge. It was sharp. 

There was something he had to do. An inkling in the back of his brain, growing. It’s urgent. Phil survived so long by listening to his instincts.

The bright white light made the surgical steel look clean. It’s so sharp, he doesn’t think he would feel a thing. 

He brought it to his neck before the door opened. 

He turned, wide-eyed, because the last time he checked, he was alone.

“Shut  _ up,  _ Tubbo.” Tommy said. Phil would chastise him for it if it wasn’t so clearly playful, a tease. The blonde was looking back over his shoulder, careless. He stared.

Tommy looked forward. He met Phil’s eyes.

He stares.

“What the  _ fuck!—“  _ he shouted, leaping forward. Phil started, jolting back, but he was slow, foggy, and the scalpel got stolen from his hand before he could blink. It crashed to the side, the force of it being flung knocking over some jar on the counter. Tommy was staring up at him, eyes so wide open the whites were showing, and heaving with the effort of his lunge.

“I—“ he faltered. 

“Tommy?” Tubbo poked his head in. The glass he was holding shattered against the tile. “Phil?”

He crossed the floor without a thought, joining Tommy in peering up at him wordlessly.

“Nerds. You good?—“ and Techno was the next. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t yelp, or drop anything. He just walked forward, slowly, dropping onto the space Phil had vacated when he’d sat up.

His hand curled around his wrist, two fingers against his pulse point. 

“Wilbur,” he called, and he sounded strangled, a little choked. “Wilbur!”

And the brunette was the last to poke his head in, but he was the fastest to join them, nearly tackling Phil in the hug thrown over him.

The two youngest clambered onto the bed as well, tucking themselves between the three eldest. 

“I—“ he began again. “—what’s going on?”

“Long story.” Techno grunted.

—

“Why did you— why did you have the scalpel?” Tommy asked him, a few days later, when he’d adjusted. He hated being idle, but his legs didn’t work like they had before; the virus had atrophied them, made them weak. He was supposed to recover fully, albeit with some weakness around the bite wound. It wasn’t fast, though, and Phil resented that. So he was working them, trying to build back up the years of lean muscle he’d gained before. The complex made him uneasy. The hierarchy felt fragile and oppressive. Techno voiced his similar thoughts as well. But the other three seemed to love it, so he stayed quiet.

For the moment.

“I thought I was Turning.” He responded simply. There was no reason to lie. There was no good lie he could have told.

“I don’t get it.” Tommy admitted. He adjusted, leaning a bit for Phil’s comfort. He’d been working as a rather effective cane for him, like his other sons. He didn’t mind it, himself. 

“I was going to take myself out before you all had to.”

Phil could feel the stutter in their steps as Tommy processed it. He felt more easily tired. He’d been assured that would pass soon, too, but his eyelids closed more insistently as he exerted himself. 

“We were coming back for you. You knew that, right?” And Tommy’s voice sounded thick, like honey. He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that he’s staring at him, now.

“I hoped. I didn’t know if it would be in time to say goodbye.” He shuddered.

He felt the shiver run through Tommy as well. 

“Couldn’t say goodbye. I’m sorry.”

“I know.” He lifted his hand to rest on top of where Tommy’s own hung beneath him. “Thank you.”

He opened his eyes. He could see Techno, sitting, reading, independent from the others, but relaxed. At least somewhat. He heard Tubbo and someone else chattering gleefully. He heard Wilbur’s guitar, floating in from some place or another. He felt his son, supporting him. Stood with him.

Even as his legs tremble, his head pounds, and his lungs ache, he doesn’t think he’s ever been more grateful. Grateful he didn’t have to say goodbye.


	2. the icy dread of the drowning dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> phil gets acquainted with the arctic coastline and the butcher army. intimately acquainted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aren’t you tired of being gone? don’t you just want to drop a new philza angst chapter on your readers out of nowhere?
> 
> gods above thank you all for your absolutely overwhelming amount of comments. I am trying to go through them all and respond right now but do not be afraid of leaving me more. I genuinely, seriously adore reading them!! long ones, short ones, ones that are *just* pained screaming!! tysm!! <4
> 
> I’m sure you want the angst now. or. maybe you don’t want it. you just want to get it over with. either way, enjoy <3
> 
> prompt for today: “DELAYED DROWNING | CHEMICAL PNEUMONIA | OXYGEN MASK”

Phil thrashed as he was pushed underwater again, barely managing to catch a breath before the cold enveloped him again. His lungs burned from the pressure of keeping the air within. It was staling far too quickly, the consequence of his violent jerks against the hands that kept him down. It was hard to hold onto the air when he struggled, trying desperately to claw back to the air. All he did, however, was disturb the surface of the water, further blurring and distorting the image with his kicks.

They were keeping him under for longer and longer periods of time. His chest was aching from the straggling breaths he’d managed to suck in, but they weren’t enough to combat the fatigue that was beginning to settle. As he held his breath, black spots danced just within the range of his vision. He thrashed again. He hadn’t realized he’d stopped moving until the hand clutching his shirt dragged him back up above the water. 

“—so, Technoblade. What d’ya say?” Quackity was saying something inane, Phil was sure, but he’d missed the first part of their ‘negotiations’, as Fundy had called it, and he didn’t think they’d repeat it if he asked.

He also couldn’t ask, since he was coughing out the mouth full of cold water he’d inhaled upon his abrupt exit from the sea.

The hybrid huffed a sigh, though it couldn’t disguise the all-too-apparent worry inherent in his posture from the blonde. 

“I’ll g—“

_ “F’goff!”  _ He shouted, covering up his friend’s own response with a wet gurgle. The rosette looked stricken at his protests, hand clenching tight around the hilt of his sword. 

“Shut  _ up,  _ Philza!” Quackity snapped. His hand swiftly turned down by his side, a signal he was becoming unfortunately intimately aware with. Phil took a breath before he was shoved down. 

Bubbles brushed the sides of his face like the barely-there caress of an old partner, soft and fleeting before they returned to the surface. The disturbance faded quickly, though. Almost too quickly, because he’d been using them to measure the time when his own mind was too harried to do so by any conventional means. The yelling above him, both deep and high, only carried through the water in quiet mumbles. 

His wings felt sodden and useless, feathers splaying out and twitching compulsorily. They couldn’t lift him, not when so wet and heavy, weighed down by the sheer  _ oceans _ that they seemed to soak up.

Jerking violently wasn’t going to get him anywhere, he belatedly realized. It was only sapping at what strength he had left from his multiple excursions down. His mind raced through his options, as limited as they were. 

He had to do something drastic.

He coughed, chest seizing with the action. Reflexively, his body twitched, once, twice, before he stilled, letting his limbs relax. He opened his eyes against the sting of the water, staring up at the sky. He tried to keep his chest still; it wasn’t hard when he couldn’t take a breath either way.

He’d read about people drowning, before, though it was nothing in comparison to  _ seeing  _ it. Their eyes went glassy; their mouth hovered at water level, head tilted back. It wasn’t hard to adjust when he was halfway there, when he could feel the rough burn of salt scraping at the inside of his lungs.

The pressure on his hair relented, the hand that had been tugging his head beneath the water ghosting over his body to prod at his side. He could vaguely make out some quiet panic from the boy behind him — Tubbo, if he remembered correctly, though the color of his supposedly brown hair had been distorted by the crashing surface of the sea — before he was being pulled from the water again. 

“—andpa?” Fundy, ghosting a paw over his nose, checking for an exhale.

_ “Phil!”  _ Techno, a pink blur in the corner of his vision. 

“Oh gods— is he breathing?” Tubbo, behind him, jumping out of the water and onto the dock. He forced himself to stay unfocused, though his instincts screamed at him to watch, observe,  _ analyze.  _ Watching the clouds drift by above him was the easiest way to distract himself. He could feel his lungs craving to burst, but he needed to buy a little bit more time. 

Just a little more.

“If you don’t move  _ right now,  _ I’ll slaughter you where you  _ stand.”  _ His best friend hissed. Phil’s eyes burned from the strain of keeping them still and open, pricking with salt water and held from the desire of just a single glance towards where he knew Techno had once stood, just to check on him.

“If you move, he’ll die no matter  _ what.”  _ Was the hissed response. “I don’t care, Technoblade. He’s a war criminal just the same as  _ you.” _

The little glance wouldn’t have helped, not with the steadily seeping vignette at the borders of his vision. It was like an inkspill, blotting blue-dyed, white speckled parchment black.

“He only has one life— let me  _ help him, so help me  _ gods,  _ you will regret this for the rest of your—“ _

The snarl had the same wavering quality as the rest of the sound around him, fluxing in volume. It hummed with a timbre he had heard only a few times prior. The ringing in his skull in a cave, head crashing against stone, pressing back to avoid the swipe of blunt nails. When he’d been possessed to move backwards, just a bit, just a little more—

A little more, he convinced himself. He had that kind of self control. Tubbo hadn’t left his side yet, and he could feel the light pressure of fur over the drenched robes that plastered themselves to him. They felt heavy, a second skin that clung and pressed and he didn’t think he could take another breath if he  _ tried _ he had waited far too long and it was too late and—

He couldn’t help it. It hadn’t been time yet, but his body wracked without his permission and he jolted to life, grasping for breath with heaves more animal than human. Drawing his sword and spinning, stumbling back, was more instinct than conscious thought. It was autopilot, set to survive, defend, go back  _ go back— _

He blinked the salt water out of his eyes furiously, but it kept coming, and he was crying, body trying to flush out the sudden dryness. Blurry vision couldn’t stop him from leaping backwards when a hand tried to reach for him, even if it could cause him to trip-stumble-get-back-your-balance-you’re-not-done-yet. 

His breath was raspy, yet the hoarseness in Techno’s when he spoke rivaled it as the two had rivaled each other for so,  _ so _ long.

“Phil—“

His ears were ringing but he managed to catch his name, turning his head only slightly in the direction of the call. Wet vision stayed trained on the threats at the edge of the ice, even as his eyes fluttered shut furiously to dispel the tears. 

His reassurance came out only as a dry wheeze, rattling somewhere deep in his chest. Phil coughed to alleviate it and tried again.

_“I—_ gh _,_ _fuck_ , _“_ he cleared his throat a final time, the words finally clearing the odd, watery gargle. “I’m fine.”

The black that had been rolling in through his vision was fading quickly, replaced by quick bursts of stars, fireworks from a crossbow that sparkled briefly before fizzling out completely. Total awareness returned to him slowly, but in waves, waves that crashed against him with each recollection of his senses.

Gods, he was  _ cold.  _

He pulled his sword closer to him. A tighter guard wouldn’t hurt, but it was mostly to ward off the all-encompassing chill. His teeth chattered, wings bristling against the wind. His feathers were about to freeze right off their quills.The image of vanes turning brittle and delicate did nothing to soothe the sharp shivering and the too-loud chattering of his teeth that overtook him. He could feel the snow dusting his hair and wings, and he lamented how he’d left his cloak in the cabin. Wasn’t as if he’d had much choice, with how he’d been dragged. 

_ Stupid, stupid Philza, _ he cursed himself.  _ Too much dormant paternal instinct for your own good, all it takes is your grandson and your honorary son to show up and pretend, pretend,  _ pretend,  _ and then you pay the price. Your oldest, dearest  _ friend _ nearly pays the price. _

The sharp whisper of diamond abruptly brought his attention back to the situation at hand. Techno intercepted the axe as soon as it even completed a quarter of its arc, easily stepping in front of him.

_ Head in the game, Philza. _ He reminded himself. He quickly assumed position at Techno’s back, wings spread despite the chill. The old intimidation tactic worked less with charred feathers, but he’d take any inch that made him seem larger than he was, more threatening than he initially seemed. He wasn’t sure he painted the most dangerous, deadly picture of himself, based on how he still shook or how his hair plastered to his face, but Techno took care of that with the quiet grace he adopted whenever he seethed particularly harshly. Phil took a little more than the appropriate amount of pride in how he was trusted by the other man, enough to spark that particular rage when his life was threatened. A bond forged in blood.

Phil was moving slower than he would have usually, heavy clothes and dripping fatigue, but Techno covered his flank just as well as he covered his. The butchers were dispelled in moments. 

The blonde let his sword hang limply by his side as he pressed his palm over his chest, feeling his heartbeat. It felt sluggish despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins, warming him with a flame that felt unnaturally hot. The press of too-warm blaze powder settling between gaps in armor, sizzling against chain and leather.

He lifted his gaze from the glaring snow to his friend, squinting against the blindness that came with unadjusted eyes and the white scapes of the tundra. A crimson gaze flickered over the horizon. When Techno seemed to be satisfied the butchers weren’t coming back, he turned so quickly Phil winced in sympathy with the almost tangible whiplash. 

_ “Gods—“  _ his partner breathed. He pried his fingers off of his sword — a good thing, considering his fingers felt as if they were frozen around the worn-smooth handle — and sheathed it for him, before much warmer hands enveloped his own over his chest. One lifted his fingers from his own heart, the other splaying across his chest. The rosette cocked his head as if listening, staring intently at where his fingers met soaked-through, freezing robes. He hissed, the unnatural warmth from the pads of his fingers a sharp contrast to the drenched cloth. 

“What were you  _ thinking.”  _ Techno demanded. “You— you were  _ drowning _ and you were  _ provoking the people who were  _ doing it.”

“Um.” Phil responded dumbly. He couldn’t think of much else besides how warm Techno was, and how almost feverishly cold he felt in comparison. His companion’s glare softened to what Phil knew it to be all along; thinly veiled worry. 

“You’re fucking freezing.” He muttered. It managed to sound both like a scold and an apology at the same time; he laughed at how characteristically  _ Techno _ it was, ignoring how it made Techno freeze and glance up from where he was busy fiddling with the clasp to his own cloak. It didn’t take too long, however, before the familiar thick fabric was draped over his own shoulders, leaving the other in his wraps and too-large, too-loose shirt. It did little to immediately ward off the chill, but it did protect him from the winds. They’d howled and whipped as they’d fought, chapping his salt-cracked lips and drying strands of his hair into a tangled mess.

He relaxed into the weight, even as it slumped awkwardly over him and his wings. His own cloak was adjusted for that, and his height, unlike its modified twin. This was longer, better for Techno’s broader figure. 

“Yeah, getting dunked into the Arctic ocean’ll do that to ya’.” Phil quipped back tiredly. He let himself fall into Techno’s side, secure with the knowledge that the other man would catch him. He did, albeit with a little huff caught somewhere between humor and exasperation.

“Too soon.” Techno sighed. He ducked, letting Phil adjust before he hooked an arm underneath the crook of his knees, sweeping him up into a carry. The sudden movement jostled him, but he swallowed down the rattling cough that threatened to escape. It was easier for Techno his wings tucked close to him, so he ignored how the trapped moisture in them seeped onto the cloak in favor of shifting so he was further curled within the fur and fabric. 

“Sorry, mate.” Phil hummed. His voice still sounded wrecked, he noticed with a frown; gargling salt water had probably not been in his best interest. Yelling through it probably hadn’t been either. But it had been necessary to stop Techno from making an impulsive, idiotic decision; one they certainly needed to talk about, later. Honestly, just because he had one life didn’t mean he was an  _ invalid. _

“For?”

“You know what for.” Phil poked him in the chest, although the jab was softened by the layer of the cloak between them. The soft crunch of boots through the snow kept him simultaneously aware and drowsy. He would have been embarrassed to be carried before, he realized with a stray thought. But he’d dragged Techno through bloodied battlefields of his own making, and Techno had returned the favor enough that he nearly felt comfortable enough to fall asleep in his friend’s arms. Would have, too, had he not wanted to avoid the problem of his deadweight. Not that it would have probably bothered the broader piglin hybrid. “Let ‘em in.”

“Yeah, well, you  _ are _ an idiot for that one.” Techno conceded with a gruff chuckle. “Really, Phil? Two kids come’a knockin’ is all that’s needed to take down the so-called ‘angel of death’?” He teased.

“Hey, mate,  _ you _ spread that title. So-called my arse.” Phil grinned, letting his eyes close. He could hear the faint sounds of redstone; the icy coast wasn’t too far from their cabin at all. 

“Mmn.” Techno hummed. “Guess I did. Wasn’t your fault though, anyway. Government proves itself the greater evil yet again.”

“Fuck government.” Phil confirmed with a mutter. Techno laughed, really laughed, and he grinned as he felt it resonate through his chest. 

“Reminds me why you’re the only person I can trust, Phil.” Techno sighed in a way that could only be considered fond as he pried open their door with a bit of maneuvering of Phil in his arms and a well-placed foot propping the spruce open. And a bit of bitter. Too much bitter.

“Hey, Tech—“ he tried. It became obvious that route wasn’t open for further questioning as he marched them into the cabin, so Phil didn’t question it. Instead, he only sighed as they entered the warmth. But Techno didn’t put him down. “You can put me down now, mate—“

“Nahhhh.” He drawled. “Seemed a little cold, thought I might just toss you into the fire and flame. Set that cold heart alight.” 

“Oh, mercy, spare me the dramatics, oh blood god.”

Techno harrumphed before acquiescing, setting Phil down as soon as they’d reached the couch that sat parallel to the fireplace. He settled into the corner with a low trill, closing his eyes and tipping his head back, basking in the warmth of the nearby flames. 

That was, before his heart battered against his rib cage and he lurched forward, bringing his elbow up to his mouth just in time to smother the vengeful cough that wracked through his chest. 

Pink appeared in his peripheral vision before a worried voice permeated the lingering wheezes after the initial hack.

“You alright? Who am I kidding, of course you’re not alright, you nearly drowned—“ Techno was talking mostly to himself again, wringing his hands. Oh gods. Phil watched as he wrung his hands, wincing.

“Stop fussing, Tech’, was just a cough. No need to panic. I’m here, right? We’re fine.” Phil peered over the back of the sofa, closing one eye so he could better focus on the blur just out of his blind spot. He was hoping to interrupt the eventual onset of fussing and fury that came after each of their near death experiences, but with the way Techno paced, perhaps it was not to be. 

“You’re fine.” Techno repeated, halting. 

“Yep.” He popped the ‘p’, slouching further. The more at ease he looked, the better to soothe Techno with. “And you’re?”

“Fine. I’m fine.”

“Mhmnn. So we’re?” He prompted.

“We’re fine.” Techno filled in slowly. 

“Sure are.” He finished.

Silence filled the gap for only a moment while he closed his eyes, until Techno interrupted it again.

“You gotta’ change, Phil. You’re gonna catch a cold.”

“Oh, so  _ now  _ we’re the ones worrying about a cold. Not when we’re on the streets in the pouring rain with neither scarf nor cloak, eh?” Nonetheless, Phil collected himself enough to drag himself to standing, ignoring how his heart protested and palpitated wildly at the movement. 

“That was  _ years _ ago.” Techno flushed.  _ “So _ many years ago. How do you even remember that? Gods, you’re so old.”

“I’m barely a couple years older.” He squinted. Phil let the cloak fall from his shoulders, watching as it drifted flat to the surface of the couch, laid out to dry by the fire.

“Yeah and you’ve adopted twice the kids I have. More than that.” He accused. Phil waved him off, grinning as he spied the crossed-arms and casual leaning against the counter. 

“Not all my kids, mate. But yeah, yeah, whatever.” His heart still ached at the mention of his children. His son. But it was easier to bear when he distracted himself. He really did need to change. “Don’t go off murdering until I get back, yeah?”

“I’m no untamed beast,” And despite the sarcasm that lay beneath, Phil knew he had gotten his answer, with the way he softly continued. “I’ll be fine. Can handle myself for a few minutes. Go change.”

Phil let a soft affirmative drift from him before he scaled the ladder upstairs, wings tucked carefully to his back to avoid knocking them against the hatch. He’d done it once before, and had been lucky Techno had been there to break his fall. It hadn’t been his most graceful landing — nor Techno’s best catch — but it has been enough to prevent bad bruising at best, and a broken bone at worst, so he’d been attentive to where the little square of space ended ever since.

It was made a bit harder by the bone-deep fatigue that the asphyxiation had cloaked him in, dripping from him almost as poignantly as water had his clothes before he’d reacquainted himself with the fire. He stripped off the wet robes, wincing at the particularly clingy layer of his undershirt before he pulled on a looser, dryer version. It alleviated some of the pressure against his torso, chest no longer straining heaves against too-tight fabric. Still, he grimaced at the rattle in his chest. Swallowing that much water, and the ragged gasps he’d made had not been good for him. Probably had torn up his chest. Nothing that, hopefully, a good night’s rest wouldn’t fix. That, he decided, and tea. 

Phil clambered down the ladder with a bit more ease, especially since he took the last few rungs by not taking them at all, choosing instead to drop the last few feet, bending his knees to make up for the impact. Even the brief moment of weightlessness was enough to satiate the deep-buried, restless urge in him, at least for the moment. He knew he’d have to revisit it, soon. But not tonight.

When he brushed himself off and looked around, Techno’s cloak had been moved closer to the fire, and the rosette himself was nowhere to be seen. 

He surveyed the area with a slow spin before he stepped towards the windows, peering through the slats. He was eternally grateful Techno had added the shutters; at least that way, he didn’t have to worry about crashing his head against the invisible glass. A flash of movement directed his attention downward. He smiled softly at his oldest friend dragging a brush through his horse’s mane. At least Carl hadn’t been threatened. That would have spelled disaster for Techno for sure. He shook his head fondly before he retreated from the gap. Phil retraced his steps back towards the couch, pausing briefly only to snag his own cloak from where it had been draped over a chair, pulling it around himself as he settled to the floor in front of the fire. He leaned back so he could fumble with the blanket he knew was still halfway-tucked between the cushions of the couch, snagging it with a hooked finger and pulling it free until it came towards him. 

He arranged it fairly carelessly until it formed a bit of a semicircle. As much as Techno liked to make fun of him for it, he could admit only to himself he did have a tendency to make little ‘nests’. It of course had nothing to do with his avian instincts, he told himself, but of course only everything to do with comfort. 

Phil allowed himself to tip back slowly, clearing his throat when the persistent urge to cough made itself known. He turned onto his side, facing the warmth with a soft sigh. He still needed to ask Techno what the butchers were asking for; the conversation had been lost to water roaring in his ears and pure adrenaline. He only felt safe enough to sleep with the knowledge that Techno was awake and that they’d destroyed the ‘army’ so thoroughly it would take them at least a few days to collect themselves and recover. 

He could feel his hair tickle the sides of his face where stubble had grown just a little too long, and where the tangles from the wind and water had dried messily, but that was the next day’s Phil’s problem. Not his. He wrinkled his nose as he yawned, curling further into himself despite the tautness in his chest. It would dispel by morning, anyway, and the tenacious shivers were more irritating for him to deal with than a simple cough. He let his eyes flutter closed, and the gentle crackle of the fire lull him into unconsciousness.

—

He woke up choking. 

He kicked out a leg, suppressing a cry with a cough when it collided with the leg of the couch. A particularly aggressive seize had him turning into his back. That only made the sudden flare worse. He squeezed his eyes shut against the abrupt lack of air, inhaling desperately to try and force any oxygen at all back into his aching lungs. His chest  _ burned,  _ lit like the fire yet twice as hot as the sun. It felt inflamed, and when he uselessly grabbed at his chest to relieve some of the pressure, it was hot to the touch even through his undershirt. He felt some sudden sympathy for the fish he snagged from the water— he felt akin to them with the way he thrashed, light-headed.

_ “Tech— _ hh—  _ no—“ _ he tried to rasp out. It didn’t come out as more than a series of ragged gasps and whispers, somewhat more alike to a wordless plea than anything recognizable or audible whatsoever.

His hand jolted out, uncontrolled. Something fell to the ground with a loud clatter, but he couldn’t be arsed to find out what it was. Not when he was asphyxiating for the second time within two days, eyes rolling back as he tried to conserve what little air he could gasp in between hacking coughs and rattles.

The second thud was unexpected, though, since his limbs had yet to lash out against his will a third time. Suddenly there was hair not his own framing his face, long, scarred fingers not his own fluttering anxiously by his chest. Crimson irises stared down at him, pupils wide and eyebrows raised far above them. 

“Gods— fuck, fuck— Phil?”

His attempt at a nod turned into a spasm. It was getting harder to find any air at all between the tightness in his chest and the wheezes that caught in his throat. 

_ “Damn it.”  _ The man cursed. He got up too swiftly for Phil to track, though his footsteps sounded close to their brewing stands. The sound of a chest opening was too loud. The clinking of bottles was too close to too-loud bells. Everything seemed doubled, even as his vision folded. He couldn’t get the air, the air, the  _ air come on you have to breathe— _

—he woke up to a pair of hands pressed firmly against his chest, somehow distinctly warm even compared to the mess of blaze-powder magma-cream nether-fog heat that was rolling through his lungs. Something wet trickled down from his nose, running along the side of his face. He smelled blood, tasted it on the roof of his mouth even when his tongue moved molasses-slow. 

“Come on, Phil,  _ breathe—“ _

He spluttered as he tried to gasp in a breath, suddenly moved by the overwhelming need to  _ breathe. _

Techno immediately curled his hand between his shoulder blades, between floor-pressed and aching wings to lift him up. It was marginally easier to breathe upright, though he still blinked spots out of his vision just as fast as they returned.

_ “Tch’.”  _ He tried again. He was met with only a response of cool glass pressed against his lips, an insistent pressure.

“Water breathing.” The rosette explained before he could even gather the little breath needed to try to ask. He lifted a shaking hand, barely brushing the bottom of it before he tipped his head and the bottle back, coughing between mouthfuls of the liquid.

Slowly but surely the pressure eased until he was blinking away the forming tears on his lashes, roughly swiping them away with a still-weak arm.

He slumped forward with a groan, letting his forehead rest against Techno’s shoulder. 

“You alright?” Techno muttered. The low question reverberated in his chest, buzzing against his forehead. He hummed. 

“Phil.”

“Yes. I’m alright.” He sighed. “For real I think, this time.”

He felt Techno shift under him, moving the two of them until the piglin hybrid could comfortably slouch as well, chin coming to rest on his own shoulder, despite the crick in his neck Phil knew it would give him. 

“You nearly—“ and Techno  _ shook _ beneath him. Phil sighed. It was close. Too close for his liking. His own adrenaline thrummed nervously through him, brain still wired on the remaining vestiges of survival instinct. Fight or flight or choke on the ground. But it still found it within himself to grab Techno’s hand and press it against his own heart, willed him to feel it beat underneath his fingers.

“But I didn’t. You were here.” He reminded him gently.

Techno pulled away, though his wrist stayed within Phil’s loose grip. He looked almost affronted. Phil pulled back a bit as well, though to a lesser extent, if only to try and read the other better.

“Exactly. I was here.” He scoffed. “If you weren’t here, we wouldn’t have had to  _ deal  _ with this.”

“... Techno?”

“Just—“ he heaved a frustrated sigh, running his free hand back through his tousled braid. Phil was suddenly reminded he must not have looked much better. The sign of distress, though, put him on edge as much as Techno must have been to allow it in the first place. “—it’s nothing.”

“It’s never nothing.”

“It is.”

“What did they want, Techno.” He pressed, fingers tightening. 

His silence said too much and too little.

Finally, he relented, turning his head to study the bubbling brewing stands on the counter.

“Wanted me t’go to L’Manberg. Face trial, for uh, blowing it up.” He mumbled.

His fingers flexed around his wrist unconsciously. He forced himself to relax when he saw Techno tense minutely, letting his thumb rub over the outlying bump of the wristbone instead. Partially to soothe Techno, and partially to comfort himself.

“You didn’t do that, though.” He glanced up. Red met blue for only a moment before he was looking away again. The unspoken mention of his son’s name came and went. 

“No. But I brought the withers.” He chuckled dryly.

“You told them it would happen.”

“Yup.” He popped the ‘p’.

“That’s not fair.” He protested. It sounded petulant even to his own ears; since when were things fair? For anyone else, but for them, especially? God. Retirement seemed a lot harder to settle into than Phil had imagined for either of them. Too early, when they were still young, too turbulent, when they had both been war-battered and bruised, too calm when their blood still sung for other’s own to be spilled on the ground. 

He paused.

“You’re not going to go, are you?” Broken fragments of sentences were starting to clutter and collect in the forefront of his mind, piecing together a puzzle he never had the access to the parts for. He was clever, though, and it didn’t take a genius to match the shapes to their holes. His thumb stilled. “Techno. No. Absolutely not. I refuse. Are you kidding me?”

“They already threatened you once, Phil. Did more than threaten. Nearly just killed you.” Techno dismissed his objections, hand moving up to pry his hand off of his wrist. Trying to escape.

Phil caught his other wrist, too, holding them between them and ducking his head to try and force the eye contact Techno so desperately avoided. 

“No. So what? You’re going to go with them because they threatened me? Hate to tell you, Tech’,” he snorted. “they’re not big fans of me either. It’s not going to help if you go there and they exact whatever bullshit consequence they pull out of their arses just for their own phony sense of justice, and they just come back and off me while you’re gone.”

Techno growled low, a warning under his breath at even the implication. Phil huffed in disbelief. 

“Exactly. Better together than apart, yeah? Brothers in blood. He leaned forward to gently knock his forehead against the other man’s temple, only shifting to adjust when the rosette sighed and turned so their foreheads bumped. They rested there for a moment, eyes closed and peaceful, sheltering one another from the rest of it. 

“Alright.” He finally folded.

“Alright.” Phil echoed. 

The pressure on his chest had lightened to barely anything at all; the residue some mix between still-there worry, and the last lingering twinges of tightness from the water. 

They nearly dissipated altogether when he wrapped his wings around them, damaged feathers flame warmed and dry.

He breathed in and tried to memorize the calm as the fire snickered beside them, drowning out the final rattle quietly shaking between his lungs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you enjoyed!! I am back, and I’m coming back with a vengeance. I have another chapter of this written, and, if you’re here, I’ll spoil it for your: the much-asked for chapter two of ‘the missing’ ;)
> 
> please scream at me in the comments i really do enjoy it!!!!!! /gen
> 
> as always, wherever you are, have a nice day <3

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed! scream at me in the comments!!! please!!!!! I enjoy it!!!!!!! /gen
> 
> anyway; here’s the google doc link to my prompts. crossed off ones are done, but I’m going out of order sooo!!! https://docs.google.com/document/d/128YxJ7FLIFqL3RMSzodmAYJ1xEmR5RV-GL1PYM0uJPA/edit
> 
> anyway hope you enjoyed and as always, wherever you are, happy new year and have a nice day! <3


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